After the agitation occasioned by Lord Arlingford’s visit had subsided, the family-party at Charlton returned to their former melancholy composure. Day after day still passed, and no letter came; no intelligence reached them. Every ray of hope now vanished; all intercourse between Emmeline and the being on whom her existence hung, seemed now at an end for ever. Her father never alluded to the subject; but she had every reason to think that he still kept to his resolution of demanding an explanation; and indeed their formal and total separation seemed now almost unavoidable. Even Pelham, her best friend, seemed to have forgotten her; and thus deserted, the few past months of her life, during which all the feelings of her heart had been roused, and a new existence had been opened to her, seemed a dream of delirium. All had vanished. Apparently also neglected by that gay world which so lately courted her with all its most intoxicating blandishments, the admired, flattered Lady Fitzhenry, had again sunk into Emmeline Benson, and was living in all the retired concealment of guilt, without one fault, one folly to be laid to her charge. Perhaps some of her fashionable friends when they chanced to drive through Grosvenor-street, and when their attention was attracted by the closed windows of Lord Fitzhenry’s house, at that season of the year when every open London balcony is gay with dear-bought sooty flowers, might, as they cast up their eyes on the deserted habitation, wonder what had become of its inmates, and what might be the most like truth of the many stories which were for some days circulated about them. But after those few days, the daily business of amusement, and some new tale of scandal, soon superseded that of the Fitzhenrys; their vacated places were soon filled up at those meetings of pleasure to which they had been invited; and _he_ was allowed quietly to prosecute his journey on the Continent, and _she_ to drag on her melancholy existence within nine miles of all her former associates, unmolested and unthought of. Who then would sacrifice happiness or comfort to the opinion of the world? Often the sacrifice of a whole life to the idle talk of a day! One evening, when the Benson family were as usual sitting together in mournful silence, which was only at times broken by some forced remark from Mrs. Benson, as she sat dismally at her work, her husband having had recourse to his usual amusement, the newspapers, the latter looking suddenly towards Emmeline, said: “At last I see the abominable west wind has changed, and has allowed vessels to get across the Channel: no less than four French mails are due. Emmy, dear girl, cheer up,” added he, patting her cheek as he spoke; “there is no saying what news these mails may bring, for I dreamt last night——”